


Even in the Dark I Know You

by DrowningByDegrees



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: All on the handy checklist of ways to incapacitate a witcher, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blindness, Followed closely by sensory overload, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Loneliness, Lost sense of smell, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sensory Deprivation, deafness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25083376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees
Summary: The thing is, he’s seen Geralt in a bad way. Even the witcher can’t always avoid injury in his line of work, and so Jaskier has plenty of practice patching him up. But this is new, and it makes something awful and anxious twist in Jaskier’s stomach.A contract goes wrong leaving Geralt captive and stripped of most of his senses by the time Jaskier gets to him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 58
Kudos: 800





	1. Day four prompt: Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> In all transparency, this was plunked out between naps while ill, so no guarantees about the quality, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to participate in Geralt Whump Week. 
> 
> Part one is written on the day four theme of betrayal. Part two will be on the day five prompt of loneliness.

“I can’t thank you enough.” By all accounts, the mage’s smile is kind. Her soft doe eyes paint a picture of good natured innocence as she meets Geralt’s gaze. If he’d been younger or more naive, he might have taken her at face value, but he hasn’t survived this long without recognizing that mages, just like the rest of humanity, are very rarely what they appear to be. He takes in the softened features of a face trapped in eternal youth, framed with golden hair that falls in waves, and wonders idly what the truth of her is. 

Whatever she’s playing at, his patience is running thin. Everything seems normal enough, from the absurdly ornate chandelier that lights up the library to the rug rolled out across the stone floor, but he’s still eager to be done with the contract and on his way. Geralt doesn’t smile. “The only thanks I need is payment so I can be on my way.” 

“Right to the point. Of course.” She gets up from the armchair she’s been lounging in, with an easy grace that might be as manufactured as the rest of her. It’s only when she glides closer, holding out a bag of coin, that Geralt realizes there’s a problem after all. 

He begins to reach out to take it, but freezes halfway there, finding he cannot so much as curl his fingers into a fist. Thinking perhaps it’s a matter of proximity, Geralt tries to put some distance between them, but his feet refuse to be any more cooperative. 

“It’s under the rug, my dear. Even if you could move, you won’t smudge the lines enough to escape.” Her voice never loses its warmth, might even sound like sympathy coming from anyone else. 

Geralt tries to demand an explanation, to growl out a threat, something. The only sound that passes his lips is a wheezed out breath. 

“I’m terribly sorry. I’d much rather you had been someone less upstanding so I could justify just killing you and being done with the whole debacle,” the mage explains, and it seems like a very strange line to draw. She doesn’t look all that sorry anyway when she finally stands within his line of vision. “But you see, there are two of us who know what I contracted you for and that is just… one too many.” 

Geralt can’t reply. He can’t even jerk his head away when her long, nimble fingers skim his cheek, cradling his jaw the way a lover might. “No hard feelings, I hope.” 

It’s the last thing Geralt hears before silence descends, oppressive in the finality of it. The witcher falls into darkness, and then there is nothing. He cannot so much as utter a complaint as she strips him of his armor and weapons. 

***

Lost in the dark and the quiet, without even his sense of smell to keep track of his surroundings, everything blurs together. There’s no telling what the mage claims his crime is, but it must be heinous if the way he finds himself dragged along is any indication. Every instinct demands that he fight back, but escape would be momentary at best, so he lets them take him away, instead focusing on breaking through whatever spell the mage cast. They traverse a long hallway Geralt hasn’t been down, and he presses against the thing holding him. For a moment it shudders and the darkness brightens from pitch black to the less impenetrable color of the night sky. It’s not much, but it’s progress, a suggestion he might break through. 

He’s running out of time, Geralt realizes as he trips over a downward step he cannot see. Taking a breath, he tries again, ignoring the guards’ rough treatment in favor of straining to see the steps he’s being led down. The world is still veiled, but it’s taken on an ashen cast. 

After so much silence, the water dripping off to his right is deafening. It’s slow, each droplet echoing against the stone floor of what he assumes is a dungeon. The sound is only important in that it is a beacon he can strain towards. 

And it’s progress. Sort of. Soon, the clanking of armored feet surrounding him reaches Geralt’s ears. There are at least a dozen guards blocking both the path ahead and behind. Geralt can pinpoint where they are though, and one bright, shining moment, that’s enough. Even with his senses skewed, Geralt of Rivia is a force to be reckoned with. 

He does not know what tale the mage spun about him but it must have been terrible, truly. Aside from wanton cruelty, it’s the only explanation for the way the guards respond when Geralt jerks out of the grip they have on him. As if they’d only been waiting for an excuse, they descend upon him. 

Whatever their intent, a dozen isn’t nearly enough. Geralt moves deftly now that he can hear them. Weaponless though he is, Geralt is really only as unarmed as a witcher can ever be. It’s second nature to duck away from a blade thrust in his direction, leveraging the momentum to kick one of the guards down the rest of the stairs. 

It’s not victory Geralt wants, but escape, so when outlines begin to form in his hazy vision, the witcher only uses his slowly recovering senses to steer clear of the guards. He races back up the steps, towards a nebulous light that must be the hallway of the palace proper. If he can just reach that... 

“Enough.” The mage’s voice is the last thing he hears before his senses are ripped from him once more. In the whiplash of it all, he doesn’t realize one of the guards is at his back until there’s a sword run through his side. 

“Fuck.” Is somehow far less satisfying when he can’t even hear himself say it. 

\---

Jaskier cringes inwardly as he realizes how much of this rescue was dumb luck. It’s lucky that the horse he finally got around to acquiring meant seeing Roach in the stable or he’d have moved on after the first night. It’s lucky that Jaskier is charming enough that the mage pursued him. It’s lucky that said mage was fool enough to stash Geralt’s swords in her chambers. Most of all, it’s lucky that the lord she serves, the lord Jaskier gambled on pressing about all this, didn’t know what she’d done and was utterly appalled. Granted, the horror might have only been that it was that particular witcher and that this particular bard learned about the whole mess, but Jaskier cares very little about why it worked. Only that it did. 

The thing is, he’s seen Geralt in a bad way. Even the witcher can’t always avoid injury in his line of work, and so Jaskier has plenty of practice patching him up. But this is new, and it makes something awful and anxious twist in Jaskier’s stomach. Most of the wounds look to be healing, but Jaskier has seen enough to know how truly awful they must have been in the beginning to look like this now. The bruises are almost worse, even though they’ve begun to fade into a sickly green. 

Bad as Geralt looks, what’s truly alarming is something else entirely. The witcher doesn’t so much as glance in their direction when they descend the stairs. He continues to stare at nothing as they approach. Geralt doesn’t even seem to notice the loud clank of the dimeritium cuffs around the mage’s wrists, or the banging of metal against stone as the armor her escorts are wearing walk through the dungeon. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier says anyway as the guard unlocks the cell, but there’s no more reply to that then to anything else. Furious, the bard, turns on the mage. “What have you done to him?”

“It was only supposed to be for a few moments, long enough to bring him here, but he fought through it faster than I anticipated.” The mage shrugs as if it doesn’t even matter, and Jaskier wants nothing more than to strangle her. “I had to fix it.”

“What. Have. You. Done?” Jaskier bites out again, and only the fact that he doesn’t know has kept him from opening the cell already. There’s magic in this, and he doesn’t want to make it worse. 

“I had to muzzle his senses for a while. I was neutralizing a threat,” she says, as if her reason somehow excuses the horror she’s visited upon Geralt. “Relax. It’ll pass in time.” 

Jaskier sucks in a breath because he knows a thing or two about witchers. As keen as Geralt’s senses are, the loss of them must be devastating. Worse than that, if they all come back in a rush, it may well be agonizing. He can’t fix that, but he can at least make sure it doesn’t happen here. Satisfied that he’s not going to set off some trap or hurt Geralt inadvertently, Jaskier yanks open the door and steps inside. 

If Jaskier could have possibly missed Geralt’s hamstrung senses before, there’s no doing so now. The witcher doesn’t so much as twitch when the barred door creaks open. Jaskier drops to his knees on the dirty floor of the cell, but Geralt still stares straight ahead, clearly seeing nothing. Jaskier’s heart feels like it’s clutched in a blacksmith’s vice as he searches for a way to alert Geralt to his presence without startling the. There’s nothing for it though, so Jaskier sighs out a resigned breath and reaches out to touch Geralt’s shoulder. 

It’s not surprising in the slightest that Geralt’s immediate response is to go on the offensive, but Jaskier still lets out a rather undignified squeak when he finds himself on the receiving end of it. Even blind, Geralt has the capacity to be deadly, effortlessly pinning Jaskier on his back. Instinctively, Jaskier’s hand covers Geralt’s where it rests on his throat, trying to pry the witcher’s fingers free. Geralt is clearly restraining himself, even now, even when he must think Jaskier is the enemy, but better not to risk him changing his mind.

“No, leave him!” Jaskier insists when a heavy clanking from beyond the cell alerts him that the skittish guards mean to come to his aid. Fraught as the situation is, their interference would only complicate things further. While he doesn’t really fancy putting himself at the mercy of an angry, confused witcher, Jaskier cannot bear the idea of making things any worse for Geralt. 

It’s that act of compassion that pays off. Whatever state he’s in, Geralt is clever, and it doesn’t take him long to notice Jaskier isn’t fighting back. The pressure on Jaskier’s throat disappears as Geralt’s fingers stray to trace the line of his jaw instead. They linger at the hinge of it, Geralt’s brows scrunching in confusion. “Jaskier?”

At least like this Geralt can feel him nod, so Jaskier does, probably a little too enthusiastically. That should be the end of it, but of course nothing is ever just the end of anything where they’re concerned. Geralt shifts to let Jaskier up, but makes no move to get to his feet. 

“Idiot,” he mutters instead. “How the hell did you get yourself stuck down here.” 

“You know, out of the kindness of my heart, I’m not going to mention how rich that is coming from the person I’m here to rescue,” Jaskier grumbles, reaching to take Geralt’s hand in his. “Well, and because it takes all the joy out of proving you wrong when you can’t even hear me.” 

Geralt scowls when Jaskier’s fingers brush against his. “You have to get out of here.” 

“I am. With you,” Jaskier protests before remembering Geralt still can’t hear him. Geralt of course doesn’t move. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Jaskier casts about for something, anything to get his point across. Geralt won’t budge when Jaskier tries to yank him to his feet, and the bard is nearly desperate enough to enlist the help of the guards when he remembers they’d brought the witcher’s belongings with them. 

In the end, that’s what does it. Geralt might not understand Jaskier, but he recognizes the hilt of his sword immediately judging by the way his eyebrows climb. This time, when Jaskier tries to urge Geralt to stand, the witcher goes willingly, even if he sways a little when he gets there. 

“Right, good,” Jaskier murmurs, trying very hard not to see the vicious looking gash in Geralt’s side, or the dark, weary smudges under his eyes. The prospect of trying to lead the way back to the inn is a daunting one, but even though Geralt cannot see, Jaskier only lets the easy smile that graces his lips fall away once his back is turned. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”


	2. Day 5 Prompt: Loneliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, once again this was plunked out on a deadline. So, no beta, we die like witchers or something like that. 
> 
> This accidentally became three parts because the plot sort of sprawled on me (and because angst is so, so, _so_ much my jam, but I solemnly swear there is a payoff at the end. <3

Geralt recognizes that Jaskier’s insistence on assisting isn’t new. He’ll concede that sometimes it’s even genuinely helpful. Only, he’s never been quite so conscious any of those times, and everything is cast in a different light - or lack thereof - being able to move of his own volition and still managing to be so utterly lost. Their exit is far too peaceful to be much of a secret which almost guarantees they have an audience that Geralt cannot see or shy away from. What shred of dignity remains bitterly wishes Jaskier had just left him instead of leading him out of this place like some wayward pet. 

There is no hazy light at the top of the stairs this time, only Jaskier's free hand coming to rest on his arm in a steadying gesture when their trajectory takes them upward. It isn’t necessary. He isn’t _helpless_. Geralt opens his mouth to say as much, but his body picks just then to betray him, the toe of his boot catching on a stair. He doesn’t fall, not really, but the forward lurch leaves Geralt chastened enough not to jerk out of Jaskier’s grip the way he wants to. 

He’s been pushing against this spell for days, but nothingness still sprawls in every direction. No matter how hard Geralt strains to hear, silence is all that greets him. What information he can glean with his remaining senses is woefully inadequate for anything more strenuous than existing. Under his shoes, he can feel when they cross the threshold from the marbled palace floors to the cobbled pathway outside. There’s a very slight give later when stone is traded for damp, muddy streets. 

They’re walking through town probably, but Geralt can't smell people or animals or even the aftermath of rain he knows must be lingering in the air from the way it settles on his skin. They might be surrounded by villagers or stumbling through the dead of night, and much to Geralt's horror, he realizes he wouldn't recognize the difference. Jaskier is probably prattling away about something the way he always does, and Geralt notes with a distant sort of sorrow that he misses even that. 

His only anchor is Jaskier's hand in his, their palms flush, the bard’s fingers slid neatly between his. It's the closest Geralt has to a lighthouse in the storm he's trapped in. _How do you know it's even Jaskier?_ Some fretting thing in him whispers its doubt because he’s never had to recognize someone with so little to go on, but that, at least, is fleeting. Jaskier often rubs the pads of his thumb and forefinger together when he's anxious. It's the same cadence of Jaskier's thumb sliding back and forth over Geralt's knuckles. 

"Jaskier," he says, or thinks he does. He can feel the vibration of his vocal cords anyway, though he cannot hear himself speak. He must given the immediate response it earns him. The bard’s hand squeezes his, and there’s a hand patting his forearm through the fabric of his shirt in the way Jaskier tends to in the rare, awkward instances where he’s trying to be… comforting or something, and can’t find the words to do so. 

Geralt allows himself to be convinced because what else is there? Suspicion set aside, Geralt trades out pointless caution for a more ambient sort of misery. 

\---

It’s easy, even for Jaskier, to get stuck on the fact that Geralt isn’t very talkative and leave it at that. The truth is more complex, the bard comes to realize as they trudge back to the inn. Instinctively, he’s adapted to the ways Geralt _does_ communicate, leaving room for a noncommittal ‘hmm’ here, glancing over in anticipation of a raised eyebrow there. All this time they’ve had a language of their own, written so deeply into the way they exist in each other’s space that even Jaskier doesn’t really notice until it’s lost. No longer is Geralt’s silence long suffering or irritated or maybe a little bit reluctantly fond. It’s just silence and Jaskier has no idea how to coax him out of it. 

Jaskier knows that ego or stubbornness would have Geralt licking his wounds in peace under any other circumstances. It’s only the fact that he has no way of orienting himself that keeps his hand in Jaskier’s. Somehow, even knowing, it still aches when they finally reach the room, and barely get the door closed before Geralt pulls out of his grip. It’s a safe place to start, and Jaskier is glad he left the witcher’s things where he’d found them earlier if it means Geralt finds his way any more easily. 

Though speaking up wouldn’t make any difference, Jaskier watches in silence as Geralt feels out the edges of the cramped sleeping room. The witcher’s fingers brush along the top of the dresser, the windowsill beside it. There’s a tub in the corner, full of clean water from a bath Geralt must have called for and never returned to indulge in. It’s long since gone frigid judging by the way Geralt’s nose scrunches when his hand skims the surface. 

The bed is like most beds in most inns in most towns they pass through. It’s passable, big enough for two if they don’t mind close quarters. The blankets are ragged and sort of threadbare, but at least they look clean. There is a brief moment where Jaskier wonders if he ought to break with their usual habit and get a room of his own, to spare Geralt in whatever way he can, but it’s an idea almost immediately discarded. Geralt circles the bed and returns to Jaskier, hands outstretched until they find the loose fabric of Jaskier’s chemise sleeve. He does not so much as twitch when Jaskier says his name, and there’s no ignoring in that moment that this wouldn’t just be leaving his friend to fumble through his routine without anyone to witness the challenge of it. He’d be leaving Geralt with no idea that he was just down the hall. 

“You’re going to grouch about this, I’m sure,” Jaskier offers up conversationally, though Geralt can’t possibly hear him to reply. When Geralt lets him go in favor of feeling his way back towards the tub, Jaskier flops down on the bed. “The things we do for love.”

\---

At least igni doesn’t fail him. He’s heated up water a thousand times, and even without his senses to guide him, Geralt manages fine. The victory is tiny and largely insignificant, but desperately needed. It’s still a death sentence in his line of work, to be hampered like this, but that’s a concern he shelves long enough to shed his torn, dirty clothes and sink into the almost too hot water. Though it stings at wounds he’d nearly forgotten even having, drawing a quiet, pained hiss through his teeth, settling in the tub is otherwise heavenly. 

Not quietly enough, Geralt realizes with a start. If he’d at least had his sense of smell, he’d have expected Jaskier at his back, but instead, the gentle pressure of the bard’s hand around his shoulder is an unpleasant shock. He snarls and pulls away, unable to hear the placating explanation Jaskier is inevitably offering up. Whatever the words may be, they’re accompanied by a bottle being pressed into his hand that he recognizes the shape of, though he’s rarely touched it himself. It’s a question, an offer, drawing Geralt’s focus enough that the tension slowly bleeds back out. 

With a resigned sigh, Geralt allows a single, terse nod and settles against the side of the tub once more. They’ve done this often enough that he can believe Jaskier’s fingers burrowing into the knotted mess of his hair are driven by something other than pity. He doesn’t really know what _does_ motivate the bard, mind you, but this isn’t such a new thing as to set Geralt on edge. 

And it’s pleasant, in a manner Geralt won’t allow himself to need, but takes refuge in just this once. It doesn’t matter that he’s been stripped of his vision when his eyes are closed to the world anyway. The lavender oil Jaskier is currently using to detangle his hair is familiar enough that Geralt doesn’t need to be able to smell it. It’s enough that he can recognize the slickness of it. The unwelcome silence he’s drowning in is more easily ignored with Jaskier rubbing soothingly at his scalp. If he misses anything, it’s the soft, aimless tunes Jaskier tends to hum in moments like these. He thinks he might hear an echo of it, but it’s only his imagination, wishful thinking as he lets Jaskier’s fingertips trace circles at his temples and card through his hair. Geralt drifts without really meaning to, coaxed ever so briefly into something other than an overwhelming sense of affliction. 

\---

Foolishly, Jaskier lets himself believe things are looking up. They sleep the way they always do, side by side, and in the dark Jaskier can almost pretend it’s all normal. Only Geralt’s fingers splaying over Jaskier’s heart suggest anything is amiss, and Jaskier pretends not to notice. He turns away to smile, though Geralt can’t see it anyway. With any luck, things will be back to normal in the morning. 

Nothing is back to normal in the morning, not that Jaskier _knows_ that. Geralt is still fast asleep when Jaskier wakes, and as far as the bard is concerned, that’s the best thing for everyone. Melitlele knows the man needs it after the state Jaskier found him in. 

There’s no real need to be quiet, but Jaskier holds his breath out of some ingrained habit. Jaskier risks a careful caress, sweeping Geralt’s hair from his face, and leaves the witcher to sleep. With any luck, he’ll come back with breakfast and Geralt will be back to his usual, taciturn self, and they’ll waste little time in putting this town far behind them. 

As it turns out, the letter the lord sent him back to the inn with has secured them a surprisingly obliging innkeeper. So, his efforts to acquire breakfast go well. They might be the only thing that goes well. 

The bed is empty when Jaskier returns, and Geralt is packing. Trying to, anyway. It’s less of a wreck than Jaskier would expect from anyone else in this predicament, but for someone as terrifyingly competent as Geralt, it still breaks his heart to see. Thinking only of the need to somehow comfort his friend, Jaskier sets the tray he’d been carrying aside and reaches out. He does realize his mistake, but only when Geralt startles and pushes him away like some sort of threat. Funny, he’d always thought it would be entertaining to finally get the drop on Geralt. It is, in fact, not entertaining at all. 

Geralt takes a wary step closer, and for a second Jaskier thinks he’s severely miscalculated. Only, there’s no violence in Geralt’s body language when he reaches out. Instead, his fingers carefully trace the outline of Jaskier’s face the way he’d done in the dungeon. Finally, _finally_ , he relaxes, apparently satisfied with whatever he’s found. Jaskier swallows against the unanticipated intimacy and wonders if Geralt can feel the way his cheeks heat up a little, but if the witcher notices, he doesn’t say so. Not that he says much on a good day, and this is… not a good day.

 _It’ll pass_ Jaskier reminds himself as they muddle through breakfast and then everything that comes after to varying degrees of success. Geralt might be even less well equipped for idleness than Jaskier is, bristling like a particularly affronted housecat at what the bard can only assume are imagined provocations, because it’s not as if he’s said anything. It’ll pass. Jaskier believes that. He just very much wishes he knew when. 

\---

They’re still at the inn. Geralt is aware of that much, for all the good it does him. The days have started to bleed together, and they’re still at this blasted inn, and Geralt doesn’t know why. Jaskier seems rather insistent on delaying the inevitable future where they have to contend with reality, and the worst part of it is that even if Geralt bothers to ask, he couldn’t possibly hear the bard’s explanation. 

Unless, maybe, he’s just waiting for Geralt to find his footing. It seems like the sort of foolishly compassionate thing Jaskier would do. That isn’t fair, Geralt knows, when the thought crosses his mind, but Jaskier’s endless optimism is more than he can handle being the recipient of just now. 

Said endlessly optimistic bard has curled in against Geralt in sleep. His breath comes in soft puffs against the witcher’s throat, his presence soothing as much as Geralt doesn’t want it to be. He’s trapped Geralt’s hand between his own and the broad expanse of his chest, a steady heartbeat thumping against the witcher’s palm, announcing his continued existence. It’s proof of life, and Geralt despises that when he pulls his hand out from under Jaskier’s, it feels like losing a desperately needed tether. Blind, deaf, or otherwise, Geralt cannot need this to get by.

So instead, he sets about finding his footing. It’s likely night if Jaskier’s presence in bed is anything to judge by, so hopefully that means he can try this without an audience. At the very least, Jaskier isn’t awake to try and stop him. Gritting his teeth in frustration at the time it takes, he searches out his clothes and boots. There’s no certainty he hasn’t woken Jaskier with his efforts, but there’s no telltale hand on his back when he sits to tug his boots on, no one grasping at his hand when he gets to his feet. 

One hand outstretched, Geralt finds his way. One, two, three steps to the door, where the handle is cool under his palm and turns with ease. He remembers enough of the inn to know there’s a window to the right and a hall to the left, so he braces against the wall, feeling out door frames and counting steps until he reaches the empty gap telling him he’s found the staircase. 

He stumbles on the first, but the rest are easier, evenly spaced and simple enough to descend. The bottom floor is heralded by the end of the stair railing, and much to Geralt’s relief, he catches himself before tipping forward too precariously. If only the rest could be so easy. 

Because he remembers the room, sort of. He remembers that there are tables. That there is a bar at the far end. That the exit is horribly far away from the staircase and that it’s all too much empty space to serve as a guide. None of that stops Geralt from trying, slowly picking his way across the floor and hoping to whatever deity might listen to faithless witchers that he’s at least alone in his fumbling. 

The trek to the door is embarrassingly arduous. He grits his teeth when his knee knocks against a bench. He sucks in a sharp breath when he’s tripped up by what he thinks might be a fallen tankard. The whole thing might as well be an eternity, and Geralt isn’t sure what the point is if the rest of his - probably very short life - is going to be like this. But he _does_ reach the door. 

The cool breeze that meets him bolsters Geralt’s resolve. There was a point to all this. It’s probably cheating to try and do this in a place he mostly remembers, but he has to start somewhere, and checking on Roach seems as worthwhile a place to start as any. There won’t be any walls to guide him, but Geralt thinks he knows the way more or less, and if he counts the steps, maybe not every time will have to be such a damned event. 

Geralt does not, more or less, know the way. He finds his footing, picks out a path clear enough that walking feels almost normal, in a direction that should end with the doors to a stable. It doesn’t. It doesn’t end with doors to anything, and by the time Geralt recognizes the error, there’s soft grass squelching under his boots. The inn was near the edge of town. Geralt remembers that much at least. So it follows that he’s simply gone the wrong direction. 

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters under his breath, and again more emphatically as the breadth of his trouble sinks in. He’d turned around, reaching a few steps to one side in search for a stable that clearly doesn’t exist, and there’s no telling what direction he’s even facing now. It should be a simple thing to turn around and go back, but now there’s no telling if a given step will take him back to civilization or risk him being hopelessly lost.

And then there’s the rain. He would have smelled it. He would have heard the distant rumble of thunder that must come with a downpour like this. He would have seen the gathering shadows overhead that have all opted to pour their sorrows out on him. If the mage had left him with anything at all, he could have at least avoided this. 

But the only thing she left him with was the chill of a harsh downpour that saturates his clothes, and the knowledge that a deluge like this will keep villagers indoors and away from wherever he’s accidentally wandered off to. Aimlessly, he reaches out and while the tree he eventually finds his way to is hardly a refuge, it’s the best he’s likely to get. 

Exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with lack of sleep, Geralt sits at the base of the tree. The ground has already gone muddy under the grass, but he can’t bring himself to care. Mud is the least of his problems when he’s fallen so far as to have to wait for help to walk back to a rented room at an inn he doesn’t even know how Jaskier is paying for where he will continue to lose track of time… and everything else. 

Geralt has been captured, chained up, jailed, but he’s never been trapped like this, alone in his own head. He cannot listen for approaching footsteps or strain to hear a familiar melody. He cannot scent the air for the presence of some other life nearby. Even the fuzzy outlines he’d briefly grasped onto the first time the mage did this have failed him now. He thinks back to Jaskier’s hand leading him through town, to the bard’s fingers threading through his hair, to the steady heartbeat he’s memorized the shape of under his palm. Even these lifelines are no more than individual points of contact, always one gesture away from being lost to him entirely. 

Geralt thinks he understands loneliness. He knows what it is to be alone, and usually professes to prefer it, even if he lets Jaskier chase after him. But here, in the confines of his own head, Geralt learns what it is to be well and truly isolated, knowing the only possible respite is someone else’s mercy offering a momentary connection. Laid this low, Geralt can only sit with his head bowed beneath the pouring rain. 


	3. Day 6 prompt: Monster

It’s the crash of thunder that finally drags Jaskier from sleep. Maybe just this once, Geralt’s lack of hearing is a gift. At least he can sleep through all the racket. 

Except… Except the space on the bed usually taken up by the witcher is empty, and while that isn’t new in the grand scheme of things, Jaskier has still taken to immediately making sure he knows where Geralt is at. His friend would be furious at him probably, but what he doesn’t realize won’t hurt him and it certainly stresses Jaskier out a little less. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, stupidly, because of course there’s not going to be an answer. There’s no noise either though. Not of any of the idle tasks Geralt sets himself to to pass the time. And that’s maybe a bit alarming. It’s worrisome enough for Jaskier to sit up at least, eyes widening when he finds himself in an empty room. 

“Bollocks,” he mutters, rolling out of bed and yanking his clothes on in a haphazard mess. It’s nothing short of miraculous that Geralt had stayed put as long as he did, but Jaskier was really hoping the spell would run its course before the witcher got tired of waiting. Maybe it did. Maybe Geralt is basking in the relief of being able to engage with the world again, which is not a combination of words Jaskier believes will ever apply to Geralt in any situation, but… Well, he chooses optimism, because the alternatives leave him queasy. 

The innkeeper, much to Jaskier’s chagrin, hasn’t seen Geralt and okay, that’s fine. Geralt is up before sunrise half the time anyway, so that doesn’t mean anything. It does mean _one_ thing, Jaskier guesses. That one thing being that Geralt isn’t here. Crinkling his nose and heaving a very put upon sigh that he’s sort of sorry Geralt isn’t around to hear and feel bad about, the bard stalks out into the rain. 

There’s one likely conclusion Jaskier comes to when considering where Geralt might go. If he can see again, well he hasn’t seen Roach in at least a week on top of however long he was stuck with that bloody mage, and if there is anything in the whole wide world that Geralt of Rivia truly loves, it’s his horse. So, off Jaskier trudges through the mud to the stables. 

Roach whickers at him, and Pegasus, his own mount, pokes her head over the stable door waiting for the apples he always brings. She stares until he’s forced to apologize and show her his empty hands. They’re both safe and warm and that’s good, but there’s no sign that Geralt has been here at all. 

Jaskier wanders in search of places Geralt might have gone. The streets of the market are empty except for the occasional overflowing puddle where dirt road has worn away. The smithy is shut up for the day. The grand total of two people who are also out in the rain are no help at all.

Maybe Geralt went to go grouch at the awful mage, which would be very much an improvement over Geralt grouching at him. Also, entirely understandable because the woman is insufferable and Jaskier wants to do a great deal more than grouch at her about it. Either way, it’s the only place Jaskier hasn’t checked, so he sets off in that direction with only minimal grumbling about the weather. 

The trek isn’t a long one, but it’s outside of the town proper. The landscape is probably quite beautiful under normal circumstances, but with the rain coming down, and worry crawling up Jaskier’s spine, it’s all horribly bleak. Grass and leaves that might normally be vibrant are dull in the lack of sunlight, leaving the rolling hills feeling like some melancholy memory. The mud squelches uncomfortably under Jaskier’s boots with every step. The poor man who’s caught himself out in this mess looks completely miserable in the hopelessly inadequate shelter of a solitary tree. 

Said man lifts his head enough to slough some of the rainwater off of his face, and Jaskier’s heart lurches. It’s not any of the number of progressively more horrifying scenarios Jaskier’s mind cooked up to explain Geralt’s disappearance, but that’s a small comfort in the face of what he’s found instead. Wishing he’d thought to bring a blanket (or _anything_ else, really), Jaskier ignores the rain and the mud, cutting across the meadow to make his way to Geralt. 

\---

He does not know how much time has passed. Long enough to slide from despair to fury and back again. Anger is the simpler one to cope with, so by the time he feels a hand on his shoulder, he’s bristling against the urge to snarl at his would be salvation. His chest shudders with it, even if he can’t hear himself protest. “I don’t need your help. I’m-”

What is he? Mutant? Monster? He’s the kind of creature villagers assume feels nothing. He’s the sort of thing a mage assumes no one will miss. He’s an entity defined by what he destroys, and in that he’s not so terribly different from the creatures he engineers the demise of. Hardly a person at all sometimes. 

And yet, in the face of all his ire, there is still a hand on his shoulder. Fingers curl around it. A hand then, and he sullenly expects he’s going to be bullied into standing up, but it isn’t what happens at all. Against his thigh, he feels someone sink down to their knees. The hand leaves, but only in favor of being a pair of arms that draw him in. The bard, then. Stupid man. He’ll be whining about mud stains on his clothes later, not that Geralt is likely to hear a word of it. 

Left to his own devices, Jaskier basks in his creature comforts. Warm spaces and comfortable beds and not the mud and the cold, cold rain. He must be lonely too, Geralt notes, because he hasn’t left Geralt in all this time, and the witcher can’t even hear him to carry on a conversation, and yet Jaskier stays. 

What a pair they make. Geralt really shouldn’t need mercy in any shape, being what he is, but he wearily leans into it anyway. He’ll dredge up the energy to pull himself together, but right now he’s just tired. Bit by bit, he caves in the face of unsolicited affection, until he’s cautiously feeling his way up Jaskier’s arms, along his shoulders, cradling the bard’s face. He should let go. He means to. Jaskier leans into his hands and Geralt finds they just won’t budge. 

It’s a stupid thing, an emotional thing, a want he’s set aside to gather dust because he knows better. But his mind has been shrieking its loneliness and isolation for what might have been hours, and the face cradled in his palms is sopping wet from the rain, but it’s Jaskier’s and he doesn’t want to be _alone_ anymore. So, when he pulls Jaskier into a clumsy sort of kiss, it’s not so much about desire as it is about contact. He cannot see, cannot hear, cannot smell, but he can feel the hammering of Jaskier’s pulse where one of his fingers settles under the bard’s jaw. He cannot witness the way Jaskier’s arms wind around his shoulders or the way his lips part in surrender, but it’s warm and real, a beacon in this lost and empty place. 

Geralt does not imagine the way Jaskier’s fingers clutch at his soaked through shirt. He does not imagine the pressure of Jaskier’s lips fitting against his or the tremor of what is probably a moan when the bard licks boldly into his mouth. For a second, just a second, the awful litany of _alone, alone, alone_ goes silent. 

But all at once Jaskier retreats, panting roughly against Geralt’s jaw. There’s a featherlight kiss pressed to Geralt’s cheekbone, a hand smoothing over his rain soaked hair, affection unmistakable even though he can’t see Jaskier’s expression. And he knows Jaskier probably wants to put a pin in this until they can talk about it, but Geralt isn’t sure that’s a conversation they’ll ever even manage, and in the meantime, that awful, lonely ache bubbles to the surface. 

“What are we still doing in this town?” he demands, and though he cannot hear himself, he can feel the frustration bleeding into his words like a physical thing. 

There’s no answer. Of course there’s no answer. How could there be when neither of them can bridge the gap between them? Geralt heaves out a sigh and tries to jerk his hand away when Jaskier grabs for it. 

Only, one of Jaskier’s hands cradle Geralt’s clenched fist, and the other gently coaxes his fingers to relax. It’s just perplexing enough that Geralt lets Jaskier smooth his hand into a flat surface, and trace a shape in the palm of it with one finger. 

_W_

There are more letters after that. An entire word. Not that it’s any less confusing. 

_Waiting_

\---

“For what?” A scowl takes up residence on Geralt’s face, much to Jaskier’s dismay. He’d been so pleased with himself for finally thinking of a way to communicate, thinking it would ease the way for Geralt, but maybe not so much. “If I’m going to adapt to this, it’s not going to be by sitting in that room.”

Oh. Oh _no_. The mage had said it would wear off, but Geralt couldn’t possibly have heard. Guilt twists miserably in Jaskier’s stomach as he realized the witcher must have thought this was a permanent affliction the entire time and that Jaskier wasn’t even trying to help him _fix_ it. “Oh Geralt. I’m so sorry. I-” 

Jaskier stops mid-sentence. The witcher can’t hear him now either. So, he takes Geralt’s hand instead, and traces another word. 

_Temporary_

“The spell?” Geralt’s eyes aren’t even pointed in Jaskier’s direction, but his very genuine surprise makes the bard’s heart ache. 

Sentences are slower going, but Jaskier isn’t about let it stand that Geralt thinks he matters so little that his closest friend would just leave him with this. So he tries, watching Geralt mouth the words as he spells them out. 

_If not, we would be fixing it!!!!!!!!_

Maybe that was too many exclamation points. Geralt’s face scrunches up, and it’s either annoyance, confusion, or the fact that the rain keeps dripping from his hair into his eyes. None of those possibilities explain, “It’s not your responsibility.” 

Well, that is something they’re going to be unpacking later, at length, when Jaskier doesn’t have to confine himself to sentences his frayed patience can handle spelling out. 

_I would never abandon you, Geralt. Never. I_

“You what?” Geralt prompts when Jaskier stops writing, so quietly Jaskier misses it in the din of the rain. The thing is, there are things he wants to say, but he rather thinks Geralt deserves to hear it. They both do. 

_Care. I care. About you. Ridiculous man._

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and there in the moment, their back and forth is almost familiar. Jaskier allows himself a relieved sort of smile. 

_Now can we PLEASE go inside?_

\---

It’s longer than Geralt is sure he’s got the tolerance for before the spell finally fades. It does fade though, and Geralt doesn’t at all appreciate the mage’s parting gift. As it turns out, not even relief can just be gentle. 

There’s no quiet easing of the world back into its rightful place, and while the wave it rides in on would be uncomfortably jarring to human senses, it’s agonizing for Geralt. Geralt wakes to find he’s already caught in the midst of an avalanche, an onslaught that is truly inescapable. The morning light is gray at best, but even with his eyes closed, Geralt feels like he’s staring into the sun. Ducking away only presses his nose more firmly to the blankets that smell of old soap and even older sweat, so overwhelming he can barely breathe. It’s raining again, and where the sound might be soothing any other day, right now it’s like a constant banging right in his ear. Geralt hasn’t even sat up yet, and he’s already feeling something like vertigo, and he hasn’t been sick in ages, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t right on the edge of it now. 

He sucks in a shaky breath and hides his face against the pillows, waiting for it to pass. It’s a terrible decision, all told. Absently, he fists his hands in his hair and pulls, straining to focus, but it’s only pain rolling out in one more direction. The scent of all the other people who have slept in this bed is far too much and with his eyes squeezed shut, Geralt scrabbles for the edge of the bed, stomach lurching threateningly. 

It doesn’t matter in the end. Nothing comes up but an awful, sour taste that collects at the back of his throat, and that might be worse because the nausea refuses to pass. There’s nothing comfortable about his head hanging over the side of the bed. The room itself isn’t offensive, but even the subtle sweetness of the wine left in the bottom of a carafe across the room is too much, inescapably so. 

Geralt doesn’t realize he’s even made a sound, but a warm hand splays between his bare shoulder blades, more familiar now than it’s ever been. Jaskier, bless him, has probably been practically vibrating with the need to have a conversation, but he doesn’t try to. He doesn’t speak, barely even breathes as he presses closer and coaxes Geralt from the side of the bed. 

_Rosemary._ Jaskier shuffles and Geralt catches a hint of it, and it’s the first thing since he’s woken up that hasn’t threatened to upend his stomach. So really, it’s just instinct that makes him roll over and take reluctant refuge in the space under Jaskier’s chin. Conveniently, Jaskier folds his arms around Geralt like the witcher belongs there, and the bard’s shoulder blocks the light far better than anything else so far. 

Jaskier must feel when Geralt’s pride catches up with the rest of him, because there’s a hand cradling his head, a thumb sweeping indulgently across his temple. Still, Jaskier doesn’t speak, but Geralt can feel the bard’s lips move against his hairline. _Stay_.

“I don’t need this,” Geralt mutters, his own voice like screaming right in his ear. He hates the way he shudders in the wake of it. “I’m not-”

“Geralt. You don’t have to be unbreakable.” Jaskier whispers, but it’s a careful thing, quiet it enough that it almost doesn’t hurt. “I’m certainly not.” 

“It’s different.” Against Geralt’s forehead, he can feel the steady beat of Jaskier’s heart. “You’re human.” 

“And you’re what?” Jaskier asks like the answer doesn’t matter. He scritches at the nape of Geralt’s neck, a welcome relief, no matter how much the witcher doesn’t want it to be. By inches, he melts into it, chasing after the soothing scent of rosemary and Jaskier’s skin as he hides away from the light. 

“...not,” Geralt settles on, quietly as he can manage, though the rumble of the word rattles his teeth in his skull. “I can’t be this.”

“I’m going to assume by ‘this’ you mean your self-loathing… self. So no.” Jaskier smiles against Geralt’s forehead, and he wants to be frustrated, angry, _something_ , but the feeling won’t come. Later, he might fume about the vulnerability he was forced to suffer through the last few weeks. Later, he might be inexplicably angry that Jaskier stayed and treated him like he was worth the trouble of sticking around for, even though they both know that’s ludicrous. For now though, he just doesn’t have the energy. 

Instead, he thinks about the way Jaskier yielded, when all the world was dark and silent and terrible. _Alone, alone, alone_. Without thinking, he tips his head up, and maybe it’s to tell Jaskier to please stop talking, or maybe it’s to learn what Jaskier’s mouth feels like molded to his in the light of day. The world has still gone dreadfully sideways, and even as the aching in his head begins to recede a little, Geralt still feels one drink away from puking his guts out. He allows himself a single kiss, a quiet, tender thing before reality overwhelms anything he might happen to want. 

“Right. Good. Okay, I guess that clears some things up. _Anyway_ , don’t be that.” Jaskier’s voice is painful in the way every sound is painful, but it’s more the tolerable, pressing on a fading bruise kind of hurt, and Geralt bears it willingly. When Geralt shuffles to press his forehead against the bard’s collarbone, Jaskier doesn’t resist or give chase. He snuggles into the blankets, his body a buffer of sorts. Geralt hears a quiet hitch in Jaskier’s breathing, an anxious hesitation before he pulls the witcher more snugly into his arms. “Just be mine.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi! You can find me [on Tumblr](https://drowningbydegrees.tumblr.com/) or [ this one](https://drowningbydegrees-fanworks.tumblr.com/) if you're only interested in fanworks.  
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> 


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